


A Pretty Young Thing

by Demus



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Aromantic, Asexuality, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:38:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FIll for the following kink meme prompt; "So my headcanon for Tintin is he's asexual, aromantic, and happy that way; but what if, for whatever reason, he finds himself in a situation where he has to flirt with someone in order to get information/provide a distraction/etc? And he fails miserably, because he just has no idea how that works and is incapable of even pretending otherwise.</p><p>(Bonus if success is achieved anyway because the target found his failure endearing.)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pretty Young Thing

"Right," the captain said, keeping his voice low, "you distract the girl, I'll interrogate the chaperone."

The girl he was referring to was the daughter of a well-to-do businessman whose imported goods had recently been found to conceal vast quantities of opium and the chaperone, in fact, was their prime suspect in the case. Her duties as both tutor and companion to Mlle Mathilde Lejeune ensured close relations with the family, more than intimate enough for her to gain easy access to M. Lejeune's trade schedules and crew details. They had little evidence for their suspicions, but high hopes that the volatile chaperone might reveal her true nature with a little goading.

Hence their presence at the Lejeune's latest glamorous party. Tintin felt supremely uncomfortable in the elegant suit he was wearing, not least because the captain had insisted on having it tailor-made for him - if he had to be subjected to the humiliating process of having a suit made for him, Haddock had said with his usual belligerence, then Tintin was going to have to suffer it too. The other people in attendance, rich as cream and twice as thick, swanned effortlessly through the glitzy proceedings, but Tintin found it stifling and stagnant.

He'd perked up a little when the captain leaned in to murmur in a conspiratorial manner, hoping for some excitement to distract him from the discomfort, but now he was utterly flabbergasted. "Distract her?" he repeated, absent-mindedly taking a glass of champagne from the captain's hand and placing it back on the tray he'd lifted it from. "How do you propose I do that?"

Haddock smirked. "Thundering typhoons, isn't it obvious? Turn on that charm of yours, use the smile that makes Castafiore simper, tell her some exotic stories. She won't be able to resist."

“My- my charm?” Tintin repeated, even as the captain shoved him forwards. He stumbled, narrowly avoiding a disastrous collision with a canapé waitress, and wheeled around to face his friend. “I can't do that!” he said, alarmed. “It would be...It would be dishonest!”

“No more so than dressing up as a Red Cross official to smuggle a man out of Borduria.”

“That was different!” Tintin protested, a little desperately. “Captain, I can't just lie to the poor girl!”

The captain raised an eyebrow at him. “Blistering barnacles, Tintin, who says you have to lie? She's a pretty thing, maybe she'll take a shine to you. You could use some female company, anyway, it's no good for a lad of your age to spend so much time with a blustering old seadog. On you go, now.”

“But- But I haven't been introduced to her! It would be unthinkable for me to-”

The eyebrow inclined itself further and Tintin gave up. Knowing all the arguments in the world would crash uselessly against the cliffs of Haddockian reasoning, he resigned himself to the inevitable and turned to his appointed task. It wasn't that he didn't like women, he told himself, weaving through the silk-and-feathers crowd. It was simply that he didn't view them at all differently to men. They were all people, it seemed to him.

He'd long known that this – indifference was too strong a word, he could never be indifferent about _people_ \- this quiet neutrality set him apart from his contemporaries. He had pretended otherwise at school or course, making the appropriate awed noises when one boy or another whispered in excitement about having glimpsed a girl undressing or passed around lewd pages snatched from seedy publications, but the pretence had long since ceased. He was content to be a famous bachelor, delighted with his adventurous life and the companionship of the captain, the professor, and his dearest friends Snowy and Chang.

And now he must resume the pretence. Nerves that could face down a hail of bullets were quavering as he forced one foot in front of the other until he reached Mlle Lejeune. She was, indeed, a pretty girl; she had a sweet, slightly-rounded face topped by dark curls, cut short in the fashionable flapper style. Blue eyes smiled out at the world beneath sweeping lashes, set off by a long blue gown that sparkled with metallic thread and many sequinned decorations. Her skin was tanned, her arms delicately defined with a slight musculature and her figure slight.

Tintin realised, with a start, that he was cataloguing her appearance as though she were a witness to a crime. He tugged at his cuffs to straighten them, stepped up to the lady's chair and said, “Mademoiselle Lejeune?”

She turned to face him and stared in obvious surprise. “Surely you are Monsieur Tintin, the reporter?”

So much for being inconspicuous. Tintin bowed, ignoring the baleful stare of her chaperone, and took the gloved hand that was offered to him. “Please, forgive my presumption-” he began, but she waved his apology with a laugh

“Not at all, m'sieur, not at all. Come, join us! It's not every day that one meets Belgium's best-travelled journalist.”

He sat, mindful that the captain was hovering in the vicinity, and attempted the 'simper-inducing' smile. “I'm sure there are others better-travelled than I,” he said, awkwardly.

The girl smiled. “But none so bold or intrepid! I must have read nearly all of your articles, such an exciting life!”

So, they had reached the 'exotic stories' part of the conversation already. Tintin relaxed. “It can be,” he said, as Haddock moved in, the chaperone's attention completely taken up by Tintin's presence at the table. “Of course, there are details that aren't published, for reasons of discretion.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tintin saw the captain freeze at that remark and in front of him, Mlle Lejeune's eyes lit up. “Oh, I'm sure you must be very...discreet,” she said, her voice suddenly low, and she leaned forwards in her chair, gazing at him with heated interest.

Tintin blinked, perplexed. There was a salacious note in the girl's tone, the studied lean forwards causing the neckline of her dress to dip, and the realisation of how his statement might sound coming from a man who was not....different suddenly struck. “Oh crumbs,” he said, appalled, and was about to explain the misunderstanding when Mlle Lejeune shifted in her seat a second time, contriving to rest her hand alongside his.

This motion brought the chaperone to her feet and the captain seized the opportunity to take her by the hand, saying, “Why, Madame, I should be delighted to dance with you!” in a tone of delighted wonder, taking her hand to steer her away before she could react.

Mlle Lejeune didn't seem at all perturbed by the disappearance of her guardian. On the contrary, she shuffled even closer to Tintin and tilted her head, drawing attention to the fine line of her neck.

Tintin was beginning to feel out of his depth. “Mademoiselle-”

“Please, call me Mathilde,” she said, her voice eager.

“Mad- er, Mathilde, I fear I may have given you the wrong impression-”

She giggled, eyelids fluttering as she batted them (though to what purpose, Tintin couldn't begin to guess – did people find impaired vision attractive?). “Come now, m'sieur, there's no need to be shy. I'm not blind to the ways of the world. It must be a lonely life, constantly flitting from place to place with only your dog for company.”

Well, _that_ simply wasn't fair to Snowy. Tintin moved to defend the terrier, and stopped. If the girl had made scandalous inferences from the mere mention of the word 'discretion', then what in heaven's name would she think of him saying, 'my dog is quite enough company, thank you'? He shuddered to think. “Well, I...um....”

Mathilde laid her hand on his arm, silencing him, and leaned even further in. “Now shall we discuss just how worldly _I_ might be?”

 _Great snakes!_ Tintin stared at the girl, his mouth dropping stupidly open, and could only gape as her lips twitched once, twice, then she burst into peals of merry laughter.

“Oh, Monsieur, your face! Oh please, I beg you will forgive me, but I simply couldn't resist!” She sat back in her chair, laughing so hard that her cheeks flushed and her bare shoulders shook with it; Tintin resisted the urge to shuffle backwards.

“Mademoiselle?”

She managed to compose herself after a moment, though was obviously unable to quash her wide grin. “Your friend, the captain, he wanted to talk to my tutor? I suppose he thought you would be excellent bait to distract my attention.”

Tintin could only nod – he felt rather abysmally foolish. “Was I completely transparent?”

“Not at first. Of course, my suspicions were aroused when you failed to study my cleavage.”

“Mademoiselle!” Tintin exclaimed, shocked.

She broke into further giggles. “You must think me grossly scandalous,” she said, cheerfully. “Never mind, m'sieur, it was a bold gambit! And look, you've successfully parted me from my chaperone. You should know, you're the first man to ever achieve such a feat.”

“I-”

“Though not through lack of trying, I assure you.”

Tintin couldn't help but return her smile, at last, thoroughly out-done. “Bravo, mademoiselle,” he said, bowing his head, “Bravo indeed.”

Mathilde inclined her head in return, flushed with the compliment. “Perhaps, with that business concluded, we could return to our previous topic?” she suggested. “I'd love to hear more about your adventures!”

The journalist chuckled, ignoring the shriek of alarm that sounded from the dance floor. “It'd be a pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I have the bizarrest urge to change the first line of this to 'To Tintin, she was always “The Woman"...'


End file.
